


a thousand stars

by KaleidoKai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cousin Incest, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 21:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaleidoKai/pseuds/KaleidoKai
Summary: A thousand moments took him away from her, and only one - this moment, terrifying, disarming, exquisite as it is - to bring him back.





	a thousand stars

**Author's Note:**

> Someone wise once told me that a ship needs a coffee shop au fic to be considered legitimate, and here is my humble attempt in the name of my OTP. 
> 
> This is for the wonderful saltwives of the Jonrya chat, in particular, muse and AryasNeedle for being my inspiration.

He watches the snowflakes dance on her eyelashes, speckles of crystals glittering in the shop's light. She blinks, and they disappear, and he wonders if he imagined them or if they'd melted into the inky blackness.

They sit facing each other on an old table with a faded cloth covering its wounds. Arya's finger traces the dying pattern, and Jon thinks that if he squints, he can just about make out a picture of a blue rose. The coffee shop they're in is thrumming with activity, Christmas music bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears. Some other visitors are wrapped in scarves of red and green, Santa hats hanging off their flushed faces as they embrace the winter cheer, laughing with abandon.

Jon glances over his shoulder at his uncle, standing in what looks to be a very long queue. Turning back, he sighs impatiently. Uncle Ned had promised them that the hot chocolate here was to die for, and Jon sincerely hopes that, for all the effort, it might at least send him to hospital. He chuckles at the thought.

Arya perks up at the sound, and she looks at him curiously. He can see her feet itching to wander, her fingers tapping against the worn table in an uneven rhythm, restless as a wolf. It's taking a Herculean effort for his seven year old cousin to perch in one place, and his mind spins with ways to keep her busy.

"Want to play a game?" he asks her, already knowing the answer.

Arya's face brightens up like a sunrise, and she flashes him a radiant smile, a grey haze of excitement in her eyes.

"It's called the Game of Faces. Learnt it at school the other day," Jon offers. He muffles a laugh at his cousin's keen expression, her little body thrumming with anticipation. She's always loved trying new things.

"How do you play it?"

Jon casts a quick eye over at his uncle, deciding that they'll have plenty of time for a few good rounds. "It's simple really," he begins. "I say something, and you tell me whether it's true or false."

"How do I win?"

"By getting all the right answers, of course. And trying to make sure I don't. You have to guess whether the other person is lying or not by their face."

She thinks about it for a second, her nose scrunched up adorably, before gifting him with another of her toothy grins. "Can I go first?" she asks.

Before waiting for his answer (it's always yes), she blurts, "I like the colour red. I think it's the best colour." She looks at him with a hint of pride, and he can see her attempting unsuccessfully to swallow a giggle.

Her giddiness is intoxicating, and Jon reaches over to muss her hair before claiming his victory, "You little liar. Your favourite colour changes with the seasons. This winter, it's blue." He bursts with laughter at Arya's sullen face. "Don't look at me like that! You're literally wearing a blue shirt!"

It's a lovely shirt, he thinks. It is a cool sapphire, crisp as a summer's day, and it sits against her pale skin as an ocean's breeze over bleached sand. He thinks it brings out the blues of her eyes, especially, and he likes that the most.

"Your turn!" she chirps happily, her grumpiness at losing her first question vanishing like smoke. She never lets a defeat weigh her down for too long. It takes time away from playing, she always says.

He ponders for a moment. "I...know who broke Aunt Cat's vase last week." He struggles to keep his face straight as Arya's turns from confusion to realization to horror.

"You do not!" she squeals, her eyes widening with shock and taking in his smug smile. Her round cheeks are wobbling as she gapes at him, a picture of sheer disbelief. "False! You're lying!"

She looks so indignant, he leans over the table and taps her small nose twice, earning him a soft giggle that warms his chest more than any hot chocolate can. "I am not," he tells her, fighting a smirk, "You thought you were being clever, cousin, by hiding it in the doghouses and not telling a soul. Don't you know by now you can't keep a secret from me?"

His hand is still near her face and she playfully swats it away, sticking her tongue out at him and chuckling happily. Her laughter is contagious: sweet, and filled with a brilliant cheer like a blazing sun. He never grows tired of it.

They continue back and forth until Uncle Ned arrives, carrying a tray of three steaming mugs and a string of apologies on his lips. Jon almost feels disappointed that their game is already over - it is his turn next and they are at an impasse.

As they finally step out into the dying winter light, Jon quickly grabs her delicate wrist. The cold is hanging in the air and their breaths swirl around them, mingling and drifting before disappearing into the December chill. Snow crunches under their feet as Arya pauses to stare up at him from under her woolly hat.

"One last turn," he says, hurriedly. He waits for her to acquiesce. "I'm yours and you're mine. True or false?"

He watches the snowflakes settle on her eyelashes, curling around them in a soft embrace and twinkling in the setting sun.

She gives him a brilliant smile that melts his heart and the ice around them, then jumps up to wrap her arms tightly around his neck. He reaches up to hold her in place, accepting her wild shower of kisses with a happy laugh.

"True," she says quietly, looking him in the eye. "Always."

 

* * *

 

The winter sun gleams in the distance as Jon rounds the last corner. It dangles in the bleeding sky like a pendant, golden and precious. There is a smattering of snow falling from the rolling skies above, delicate and persistent. Jon shivers from the bite in the air. He's always loved winter, loved the cold. But now he can hardly wait for the promise of spring, locked in the future.

He finally pulls up in front of a half-empty coffee shop, the sign chipped away and fading. Jon glances through the window first, and sees her, curled around her hot chocolate. Her hair is a wild tangle mess and a smile rises unbidden to his lips. Somethings never change.

Taking a breath, he crosses the threshold, making a beeline towards their table. The blue roses have almost entirely faded, but for a hint of an outline, a tease of what once was, and what might never be.

Her back is to him, and he clears his throat, his heart hammering in his chest like a caged hummingbird desperate to be free.

Arya whips her head around, and he drinks her in like a man of thirst, his mind turning blank. She is still so much shorter than him, but her cheeks have grown sharper, carved by ice, and the childish pout of her lips have all but given in to the curves of a woman's smile. Her hair is chaos and midnight, and she wears a ring of snow on her head like a crown of crystal stars. He feels paralyzed.

Perhaps somethings do change.

She stares at him briefly, before her face breaks into an elated grin, and the magic is broken.

"Jon," she says simply, standing up to embrace him. She almost reaches his shoulders so he leans down and buries his face in her pale neck, breathing in the scent of pine needles and freshly cut grass and something sweet.

"I've missed you, cousin."

He orders a hot chocolate, as they always have, and joins her at the table. Her expression is dazzling, and it sets alight a guilt in his gut that burns hotter than the drink on his tongue. "How is college these days?" he asks her instead, keeping his voice light and carefree. It is easier this way.

She shrugs nonchalantly. "Alright, I guess," her tone guarded. There is a brief flicker in her charcoal eyes, and anxiety grips his heart.

He waits for her to continue. She does not.

Soft, thick flakes frame her eyes, fragile as a breath of icy air. The low rumble of the coffee shop fades to a meaningless noise, and he watches each crystal fall and disappear, as if never existing to begin with.

She is still silent, and he can feel sweat sliding over his skin. He thinks he sees some sort of thread wrapped around them, taut and quivering. Perhaps she is waiting for him to speak first, to slice this golden string, to be the first that snaps it with graceless fingers.

Jon swallows. "Arya, I'm sorry-"

"Stop." There is almost nothing gentle in her clear and cutting glare. Her lips are tilted in a grimace and his snap shut at her command.

"You left me," she begins, anger punctuating her words. "And I heard nothing from you."

"You know I had to-" he protests weakly.

"No, you didn't. You say it was for work, that you were busy, that _life happened_ , but they're all excuses! No phone call, no text, no response, and now you show up, and say _sorry_ to my face? How dare you!" Passion in her voice strips the chill from the air. Her rage rises over him like a burning tower, black and bare and beautiful. He is motionless, letting the heat raze him to the ground.

It was never just one moment. It was never just one terrifying, disarming, _exquisite_ moment, that saw him flee. No, it was a series of flashes, bright spots of sheer loveliness where the whole is too much to bear. It was waking up in the mornings to hear her laughter trembling in his ears, when he was alone and she was far away. It was seeing his reflection in the depths of her eyes over and over again, framed and suspended in time. In them, he was silver and golden and everything she deserved and everyday he promised he'd be that image, that he'd be what she saw in him.

It was the seconds before their first kiss, that moment of stillness when everything had faded away, away, until it was just her. When he stood at the threshold at the end of the world, one foot planted in reality and one hanging over an endless pit, dark as midnight, a thousand stars above him whispering him to jump.

A beat: she pressed her lips against his, and he fell, slow and sweet, a tangle of tongues and lips, unafraid as he tumbled through the darkness of her eyes.

He was flying...and when they finally broke apart, he felt the ground rise up to meet him. Her lips and her warmth were gone and instead was a fear that gripped his heart and turned his wings to stone.

A thousand moments, a thousand stars, and in the centre, always her.

He knew he could not be that silver prince in her eyes that mocked him every time he looked at her, so he stopped trying, and he ran.

Away from her.

He opens his eyes and sees the galaxies swirl in hers. She is still, waiting, and he flinches from the pain in her stare as she realizes he will not defend himself. Her body thrums with barely contained energy, and he knows the wrong word will set her off, devastating everything.

So he says the first thing that breaks through his thoughts, a beacon amongst the darkness.

"Want to play a game?"

He regrets it immediately when her eyes narrow, and he swallows the lump in this throat with difficulty. It is a stupid thing to say! Jon, you idiot, you've ruined everything -

"Fine. Can I go first?" Arya knows what game he speaks of, it's the only one that matters. Her tone is clipped and steady, and he shivers under her smoky glare. A Queen of Ice, he thinks, in another time and story. And I'd be her fool, where once I could have been her Prince.

She doesn't wait for him to respond, because she knows his answer is always yes.

"I waited for you. I waited by the door everyday. I waited by the phone every night. I waited for months. True or false?"

Her skin is colourless in the shop light, her eyes dark and glittering and challenging. There is not a flicker in her expression, not a muscle moved, not a hint of emotion. She is carved by ice and he is powerless to bring her to life.

He licks his dry lips, his heart pounding painfully. He thinks if he waits a moment longer, it will burst through his chest and fall before her, an open sacrifice or a bid to return to she who owns it, he can't decide which.

He takes a breath. "True," he whispers, the word heavy on his tongue.

Her sculpted face cracks and melts, and he fears what it will reveal. Arya sniffles and grabs her drink, no doubt cold from being ignored. She takes a long gulp and Jon knows she is surreptitiously wiping her tears behind the mug so he cannot see.

But I do see, he wants to say. Don't you know by now you cannot keep a secret from me?

He waits for her to set her cup down and gather herself. "My turn," he mutters under his breath.

They sit but a table apart, yet he feels he could be miles away, the distance an impasse. Her eyes are red and her skin is blotchy from the tears and she has never been lovelier. He looks at her properly for the first time since he walked through the doors. He looks at the curling strands of her hair, at the smudge of makeup at the corners of her twin orbs of silver. He looks at her blue blouse and her long fingers, at the curve of her lips and the shape of her nose. She has always looked like him, yet he has never felt their difference more keenly than this moment.

And that is what it takes for Jon to make his decision.

"I'm staying. For good," Jon says.

Arya blinks, her stare is like two blades clashing.

"For real?" she whispers, disbelief weaving her words. "You won't leave again?"

A smile slides on his lips as he feels the stone of his wings begin to crack.

"True or false?" he teases her, lulled by the sense of impending freedom. "You have to pick."

She breathes in deeply, her chest rising. "True," she whispers into the air, fearfully. The stakes in the game they play tonight have never been so high, nor as devastating.

When she sees his nod, Arya flashes him a smile worth a thousand suns. He basks in its glow, and as the last piece falls, his wings break free and he is soaring, soaring -

"It's not enough."

He crashes.

"What?" he blurts confusedly, seeing his ray of sunshine blotted out by stormy clouds. She is frowning and he cannot understand why.

"I said it's not enough," Arya repeats, with some force. "You don't get to just walk out and come back and everything is fine and dandy, stupid. You have to promise me you'll never do anything like this again, or I swear I'll geld you with a butter knife." Her voice is both sweet and fierce in his ears, and he reaches out to grab her hand.

"I promise. I swear to you, Arya, I'll make it up to you. On my honour." He laces each word with as much honesty and passion as he has within him, hoping each word imprints on her skin as she has on his.

She chews her lips in deliberation, before nodding hesitantly, and withdrawing her hand. He knows she has not forgiven him yet, but it is a start.

As they stand to leave, he reaches out to touch her arm gently, the contact sending sparks through his hand and into his heart. The coffee shop is almost completely full now, but to Jon, the two of them stand alone in a field of snow, the world holding its breath. When she turns around and looks up at him, wrapped up in her scarves, he says quickly, "One more round? My turn?"

She furrows her eyebrows. "Alright, I suppose, though I don't know who's winning."

Jon doesn't care who's winning. He's already gained so much. "I'm yours and you're mine. True or false?"

He feels the world spin as he watches her hesitate, his heart spinning with it. His mind is wrapped up in possibilities, in thoughts of a future he so desperately wants as he waits, and waits, and waits -

"True," she finally whispers and he rejoices. "Always."

Arya turns on her heel and walks out the coffee shop into the crisp December air without looking back.

Jon follows her.

A thousand moments took him away from her, and only one - this moment, terrifying, disarming, exquisite as it is - to bring him back.

 

* * *

 

Arya is staring out the window at the endless blue skies, her fingers absentmindedly tracing over the blue rose print of the table. The coffee shop had finally decided to redesign some time ago, and she and Jon were pleasantly surprised to find their table had made the final cut, with a brand new cloth.

It is where she sits now when Jon finally returns, two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in either hand. He places one in front of her and leans down to press a kiss against her lips, muffling her giggle.

"Strange, isn't it?" she begins, as he settles in front of her. "We're in the heart of winter and the sky is ridiculously blue. I can't tell if I'm pleased or suspicious."

Jon barks out a laugh. "Why on earth would you be suspicious?"

Arya takes a sip and runs a hand through her hair. It is shorter now, just brushing the tips of her shoulders, and Jon watches in fascination how it ripples with movement, a life of its own.

"Well, you know what my father used to say. Clear skies hide a secret. I reckon we'll have an absolute monster of a snowstorm tomorrow."

"Then we best take advantage of today," he responds with a grin as she smiles at him and turns to look out the window again.

He drinks in her profile, the sharp cheekbones and proud chin. Sitting here, bathed in the startling winter sunshine, she seems almost ethereal, bright with promise. When she turns back to catch him staring, he clears his throat and takes another sip of his drink.

"Want to play a game?" she asks suddenly, her smoke-filled eyes lighting up.

He chuckles into his mug, "Have I ever said anything but yes?"

"Can you go first?"

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. Arya always loves going first, and he always loves letting her, so he cannot help but narrow his eyes and study her face. She is a picture of innocence, however.

"Alright..." he starts uncertainly. "Give me a moment."

As he ponders, Jon notices that Arya is quivering with excitement, her face as radiant as a sunrise. It is intoxicating and an unbidden smile rises to his lips.

"I ate the last slice of pizza last night. True or false?" He raises an eyebrow, challengingly.

Arya snorts, and shakes her head in disbelief. "You're a liar. I _know_ it was Ghost. You wouldn't dare."

He laughs loudly at that.

"My turn!"

He is still chuckling as she takes a breath, and he wonders what has her thrumming with so much energy. He can feel it in his bones, the happiness rolling off his skin, and it makes him light-headed.

She locks her eyes with his, and says in a steady voice, "I'm pregnant. True or false?"

Everything falls away, and he sits in shock, staring at her. She does not bother containing her excitement, her smile burning into him with the intensity of a thousand stars.

"True," he whispers, his mind blank and his world washed in white.

He is still sitting agape when Arya waves her hand in front of his face, calling his name to grab his attention. Jon blinks stupidly for a second, before reaching out to hold her hand in his.

"One last question," he says to the winter storm of her eyes, reveling in their love. She is unbelievably giddy at this point, and he is struggling to stop smiling so much so he can form words.

"I'm yours and you're mine. True or false?"

It takes him a moment to realize he has forgotten to breathe. As he inhales his first desperate gulp, he finds himself floating in her light and bright world.

"True," she says, punctuating it with a happy kiss and a laugh. "Always."

He looks into her eyes and he sees his reflection. In them, he is suspended in midnight, surrounded by a thousand stars, never falling, never fading.

In her eyes, he is not silver nor golden, but warm and safe and hers. And that is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Because we all need some tooth-rotting fluff from time to time. Thank you for reading, and as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


End file.
